THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 167 
and went fishing. Our tackle consisted of a slender cane rod and 
another of the same material that was heavy enough to make a beam 
in a Japanese bridge. The latter belonged to the old gentleman. He 
was a catfish fiend from the Missouri River, where they grow large. 
Our first camp was about five miles below Wagon Wheel Gap. 
After helping me get up the tent, Mr. Wells grabbed his lumber and 
hiked down to the river. He climbed a big rock, in front of which 
was a clear, deep pool, filled his pipe, sat down and dropped his fly. 
into the pool, waiting for a bite. It looked all right to me, too. 
After half an hour of waiting we both came to the conclusion that. 
the stories about there being lots of fish in the Rio Grarde were 
buncombe. % 
Just as the sun was going down and darkness coming on, a rancher 
drove along past the camp and spying the lone rock fisherman made 
inquiry as to what he was doing. He was a one-eyed gent and looked 
tough enough to be a stage robber. 
‘*Fishing,’’ my old gentleman responded, as a friendly Missouri 
grin spread over his face. 
Then the train robber climbed out of his rig and gave a demon- 
stration on a riffle below the rock. The first cast landed a beauty, 
and in fifteen minutes we had enough for supper for three. ms 
Our permanent camp was made on the South Fork of the Rio 
Grande, and for three weeks we waded in its icy waters without boots 
or other equipment. We would go in, wearing a shirt, overalls and 
hobnailed shoes, and when we returned to camp would wear our under- 
clothing around until the outer garments dried before the big fire. 
It was a lovely summer vacation, 
Two incidents are very distinct in memory. 
One rainy day when we were sitting under the foliage and loafing, 
a horseman rode up to the camp. It was Judge Gavin, now a noted 
producer of human interest stories for the newspaper reporters who 
are assigned to his court in Denver and almost as good copy as Henry 
MeGinn in his best moods. The ‘‘judge’’ eyed a pile of trout lying 
on the grass and stuck around until we asked if he would like to 
take some along. The judge tied a string at the waist line around the 
slicker he was wearing and stuffed trout inside until he had produced 
a balloon effect. 
The other concerned a visit by Oscar McCoy, son of the old train 
robber Peg Leg McCoy. Oscar was a fine chap and quicker than light- 
ning with a gun. We knew him by sight and all about his reputation. 
Oscar appeared on the river in front of our tent, hailed us and then 
came into camp. Courtesy was our long suit with him, and we offered 
him everything the camp afforded, including some of our pea soup. 
Oscar gave us some flies and then went on up the river. That night 
when we returned from the river our camp was a wreck. Our tent 
was down and our food gone. The first thought was that Osear McCoy 
had maliciously committed the vandalism. There were strange boot 
tracks around the place. Later, however, we found a note in the 
bedding, saying that on coming down the river, Oscar had found a 
bunch of burros eating and trampling our food and had driven them 
away. The note was also an invitation for us to move down the creek 
and stop at the MeCoy camp. 
In after years we camped on the South Fork many times. Then we 
had twenty-dollar four-ounce rods and all the fine equipment money 
could buy, but we never had as good a time, caught more fish, or 
enjoyed ourselves better than when we wielded the old cane rods. 
